


A Leafling

by raiyana



Series: Prince of Greenwood [7]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Archery, Baby Legolas Greenleaf, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Gen, Getting Lost, Growing Up, Inspired by Art, Parent Thranduil, Thranduil's A+ Parenting, Young Legolas, Young Legolas Greenleaf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2018-12-12 13:20:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11737890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: A collection of vignettes that tell the combined stories of Legolas' early childhood, while Greenwood was still untouched by the creeping darkness.Marked complete, but likely to receive additional stories ;)





	1. Small Crowns and Big Questions

“Ada?” Legolas asked, startling Thranduil out of his thoughts by tugging at a long length of his hair.

“Yes, ionneg?” Thranduil replied, making the small face light up. It was a constant struggle not to let Legolas see how much it pained him every time the boy was happy not to be addressed as ‘elfling’ – the way his soft smile carved scars of self-loathing in Thranduil’s chest every time Thranduil called his name, called him his _son_. He should have been stronger than grief, should have been _stronger_ , period. Perhaps, then, he could have helped Nínimeth find peace, could have had his lovely Queen back, could have shared with her all these moments of watching their son grow. Cupping Legolas’s face, he pressed a kiss against the small forehead, stared into blue eyes so much like his own.

_Would it have been better or worse if his last leafling had looked like his Naneth instead of Thranduil himself? Or would he, too, have found it difficult to look at the elfling without seeing the ghost of his dead brother? Would Legolas have had two parents if his hair had been crimson and his eyes had been green?_

“When I’m bigger, is my hair going to look like yours?” Legolas asked, completely unaware of the dark thoughts whirling in his father’s mind. The question broke through the shadows, startling Thranduil all over again, and making him laugh. Legolas frowned at him. The leafling did not like to be laughed at, Thranduil remembered, suddenly, feeling guilty for his mirth.

“I think so, Legolas,” he replied seriously, “you look a great deal like me, after all.”

“I do?” Legolas smiled, far too pleased by the simple recognition of fact for Thranduil’s mind. Did the elfling not know? But then, who should have told him, Thranduil chastised himself mentally, when those meant to love and care for him had not even told Legolas that he was Thranduil’s _son_! Rage filled him, but he pushed it away to smile at Legolas, who was looking up at him like he had all the answers, such trust in someone who had already failed him so grievously. Thranduil wrapped his arm around Legolas’ back, bringing him close to his chest. Standing abruptly, he kept Legolas cradled against him, holding the Sceptre of his rule in the other as he made his way down from the Throne he’d been lounging on – it was important that he be seen out and about, even if the stairs up to his seat took far too long to scale – and continued back to their private rooms, nodding cordially to the Silvans they passed.

“You do, ionneg,” Thranduil promised, stopping before the mirror that Rhonith had once gifted her sister; a full-figure reflection staring back at them. “You see?” he asked, pointing at their images. Legolas leaned forward, reaching for the elfling in the glass. Thranduil smiled. His son was so curious, just like Nínimeth. “You have my hair,” he said, bringing a few strands forward and trailing them down the side of Legolas’ head, making his son laugh. “You have my eyes,” Thranduil pointed to the blue-grey eyes in the mirror. “You may not see it yet, but I think – when you grow – you will have inherited my jaw and my cheekbones too.” Legolas nodded, but then his small face creased in a frown.

“What about my…” Thranduil nearly held his breath, but the boy did not say _Naneth_ , or _nana_ , as he had hoped, had tried to teach him, “…the Queen? Do I look like her?” Legolas asked.

“You share some of her traits, ionneg, but no.” Thranduil admitted, still wondering whether that fact hurt more or less than the opposite might have. “Perhaps when you are older, you will show more Silvan characteristics from Nínimeth’s blood, but for now you look like me.” For a moment, he worried that Legolas was going to be sad about that, but the boy simply nodded, seemingly satisfied with the answer.

“Can I have a crown too?” he asked instead, one of his hands still wrapped in Thranduil’s hair. The Elvenking laughed.

“I don’t see why not,” he chuckled, picturing the small head disappearing beneath one of his own crowns.

“Green?” Legolas mumbled, snuggling into his father. Thranduil sobered. He remembered a different voice asking the same question, when he had been staring at Oropher’s ostentatious golden circlet with no small amount of horror, feeling reluctant to wear it; it looked too heavy, a reminder of loss and grief.

Nínimeth had made the first crown, a wreath of branches and summer berries, and as the seasons changed, he had found new crowns made by his Queen’s careful hand beside his throne – wordless apology and support in each one – sparking a tradition he knew he would keep, a skill of Nínimeth’s he could teach her leafling.

“Of course, you can,” he murmured, turning on his heel and striding towards the Forest Gate. “We’ll go pick out some plants right now and I will show you how to weave them together.”


	2. Small Crowns and Big Questions

“Where are we going, Ada?” Legolas asked, his small hand securely attached to Thranduil’s silk robe.

“I want to show you something, ionneg,” Thranduil replied, smiling down at the pale hair of the elfling who was growing more curious every day. The quiet and scared elfling he had first met when he woke was slowly being replaced by this lively son, who wanted to see everything and play with everything. Thranduil felt happy every time Legolas asked a question, looking to him with perfect trust that he would always be there to answer. At the same time, he caught himself looking over his shoulder, wishing to share each precious moment with Nínimeth and feeling his heart break every time he realised she wasn’t there to smile at the sight of their son discovering the world around him. This part of his Realm had been among Nínimeth’s favourites, and Thranduil had a feeling that it would be one of the ways that Legolas would take after her.

“What is it, Ada?” Legolas asked, skipping along.

“A surprise, ionneg,” Thranduil had to smile at the way the elfling lit up whenever Thranduil reaffirmed their relationship this way. Pushing the door open, the Elvenking nodded to the guard on duty, and stepped out of his halls. This part of the forest was penned in; a safe haven for the does who were about to give birth and for the smallest members of his vast herds otherwise left to roam freely in the northern parts of the forest. One of the heavily pregnant does came to him, permitting Thranduil to scratch her head.

“This was Nínimeth’s mount,” he said, when Legolas stared wide-eyed at the calm doe. He remained safely hidden behind Thranduil’s leg, though his head popped out from behind his Ada in a show of curiosity that warmed Thranduil’s heart. “Her name is Firithel.”

“She’s big,” Legolas mumbled, staring at the elk who was a fair bit larger than himself, her advanced pregnancy only adding to her bulk. Thranduil hid a smile, sinking down onto the forest floor, uncaring whether he stained his robes and pulled the small elfling into his lap, wrapping his arms around Legolas’ small body.

“She is big, ionneg, because she will soon have a fawn; a son or daughter of her own,” Thranduil replied calmly. “It is the way of things, Legolas, that ladies grow big when they’re bearing a new life into this world. Your Naneth was the same before you were born.” He hugged the elfling tighter, banishing the memories before they could rise up. Firithel sunk down onto the grass before them, chewing contentedly on her wad of grass. Legolas burrowed into his hold, still a little scared, but Firithel simply watched them, her large brown eyes deep and calm. She put her head on Thranduil’s knee, but made no move to get closer. “You can touch her, ionneg,” Thranduil whispered, proud when Legolas overcame his fear enough to stroke the soft fur along Firithel’s side. Beneath her taut skin, the fawn moved, an imprint of a hoof clear against the russet background for just a moment. Legolas squeaked, scrambling back into Thranduil’s lap as the Elvenking laughed.

“It touched me!” he shrieked. Firithel flicked her ears at the sound, but she knew better than to be frightened by the high-pitched noises of elflings. Even before Dagorlad, Nínimeth had used a different elk for riding, leaving Firithel to raise her fawns without interruption. The one she carried now was one of the few sired by Thranduil’s own war-mount – he was still unsure how Dairon had even survived the battle after he had been dragged from the elk’s back. Eventually, if the fawn was male, it would take his adar’s place as Thranduil’s own mount, but if it was female, perhaps it would be a good beginning for Legolas to learn to ride.

“Perhaps it likes you, leafling,” Thranduil murmured, lost in thought. Legolas dared reach for Firithel once more, putting his small hand on her cheek, giggling to himself at his bravery. The soft muzzle that appeared above Thranduil’s shoulder, pushing against his pale hair made Legolas shriek in fright. “Hush, ionneg,” Thranduil murmured, stroking the elfling’s pale locks. “This is Dairon, a very old friend of mine,” he said, reaching up to scratch the big elk’s neck. Dairon shook his head, careful not to hit his long-absent master with his great antlers. Legolas did not quite seem to dare touch, when Dairon moved around the two seated Elves, lying down in the grass on Thranduil’s other side. Standing on his adar’s thigh, Legolas remained shielded by Thranduil’s larger body as he stared raptly at the massive elk.

“You rode _that_?” he asked, obvious awe on his face before he turned excited eyes towards Thranduil. “Was it scary?”

“No, Legolas, Dairon is only scary to people he dislikes. If you treat him well, he will like you,” Thranduil promised. The elk snorted, as if to agree, lowering his head to nip at the grass. The sun shone down on the peaceful scene, as Legolas slowly lost his apprehensions. Thranduil smirked at his son, who was bravely reaching for one of Dairon’s spiky antlers, amazed at the fluff that covered the many tines.

 

Suddenly, Thranduil felt a need to once more ride through his lands, to reaffirm his bond with the massive elk. Calling an order over his shoulder, someone soon brought Thranduil his old saddle. The elk needed no reins, and Thranduil had never much bothered with the saddle, preferring to ride like Nínimeth had first shown him; free and unfettered through the glades, her crimson hair a sail behind her as he tried to keep up. Getting to his feet, Thranduil kept Legolas securely in his arms. “Do you want to try riding him?” he asked, feeling his heart soar at the surprised joy in Legolas’ eyes. When the caretaker had saddled Dairon – the elk preferred Thranduil’s touch, but he was used to Rochben, who had lost a leg in the war, but who was no worse off as a rider for it – Thranduil placed his small son astride his broad back, nimby gaining his seat behind Legolas. With a whispered command, they were off, moving slowly through the large forest area designated as breeding pens for the riding elks. Dairon kept to a slow, even pace, while Legolas chirped excitedly about every new thing his eyes could see, now that he was so much further off the ground. Though Thranduil kept his arms around the small body, stopping the elfling from twisting himself off their mount in his haste to point out _everything_ , he was amazed at Legolas’ fearlessness, after his earlier trepidation. The elfling’s babble was oddly soothing, requiring no more of him than a hum of interest here and there as Thranduil almost managed to convince himself that they were joined by a quietly laughing elleth with crimson hair, moments away from challenging them to a small race. He smiled at the thought.

 

When they finally returned to his halls, Legolas was fast asleep in Thranduil’s arms as he climbed the steps to his throne, a goblet of wine and a small meal awaiting him as he listened to one of the many squabbles the council of elders needed him to rule on. Thranduil found it difficult to summon any interest for the dispute, which seemed to revolve around one elfling drawing an unflattering image of the lady next door on her door. Instead, his mind was occupied with reliving his morning with Legolas, silently vowing that it would not be the last time he took his son out for a ride. It had been so long since the elder three were small, he had almost forgotten the joy of watching someone else discover all the wonder the Realm had to offer; letting him see them anew through the eyes of an elfling.

 


	3. Chapter 3

“Where is Legolas?” Thranduil asked, returning from his short trip to the Raft-Elves and not seeing the bright eyes of his son waiting for him when he entered the boy’s room. Legolas had still been asleep when he left, and the Elvenking had not had the heart to wake him, simply kissing his forehead in farewell and tucking the blankets more securely around the small form.

“I think he went with Lady Míriel’s family,” a passing laundrymaid said, bowing to the King and his Captain. Thranduil nodded his thanks. He would have liked to see Legolas, but he had matters of state to concern himself with this afternoon, judgements to pass in Commoner’s Court and such.

“Very well. Bronwe, send a runner to Lady Míriel and tell her to return my son for evening meal.” Thranduil said, turning on his heel and striding towards his Throne Room.

 

“Lady Míriel?” The Elveenking asked later, at the sight of one of the most graceful ladies in the halls appearing near tears as she stormed into the large cavern.

“My lord,” she curtsied, “I received your messenger, but…” she trailed off, looking like she wanted to cry. Thranduil began to worry.

“What is it?” he asked, worry making his voice harsher than intended. Míriel flinched.

“We never picked up the Leafling,” she whispered. “I have not seen him since yesterday. Alphel and I went to see if he wanted to play, but his rooms were empty. A passing servant told us he was with you.”

“What?!” Thranduil roared, jumping to his feet. Sick fear filled him. “Bronwe, I want everyone on high alert! Find my son!” he ordered, not even staying to watch the Captain begin barking orders, casting everyone in the room into a frenzy that spread like rings across water through the halls.

Thranduil was running. His heart beat double time, fear of loss that he had never quite conquered since the death of Thalion and the realisation that Nínimeth was bearing again, filling his soul. _Where was his son?_ Panicked, he returned to their rooms, calling Legolas’ name and looking behind all the larger pieces of furniture.

 

* * *

 

It had been hours. Thranduil had no clear idea where he personally had searched, though it felt like _everywhere_. He was beginning to believe that Legolas had been kidnapped or worse; fallen into the roaring river that ran beneath his caves, perhaps, and been swept off, drowned in the rapids. His mind kept spinning up scenario after scenario, his hands shaking, longing for someone to blame, someone to threaten or _kill_ until whatever enemy had taken his child returned him, hale and whole. Bronwe had forced him back to his rooms, pushed him down into a chair where he now sat, his goblet of Dorwinion untouched beside him as he stared into nothingness in front of him. _Not another one_ , he thought, _I cannot lose another of my sons, please Valar, not another one… not THIS one._ He stood, abruptly, knocking the goblet to the floor in his haste. Maeassel put her hand on his arm, but he shook off the comforting touch angrily. Thranduil did not want to be comforted, he wanted _his son!_ Thranduil stormed to the window, gasping in the clean night air. _What if Legolas was scared, or hurt? What if he had been stolen away, never to return?_

“I believe I’ve found something that belongs to you,” a voice said, quiet and calm. Thranduil whirled. In the doorway stood the most beautiful sight he had seen in years, he thought. Her mithril hair gleamed in the light of the lamps, the beads glinting with the flicker of flames. Her blue eyes were smiling as she pressed a finger to her lips for silence. In her arms, however, was the true reason for his rapture. The small body was fast asleep, his pale head curled towards her warmth, one of his hands wrapped in her shiny tresses.

“ _Sellig_ ,” Thranduil breathed, reaching for what he was nearly certain was nothing but an apparition, a dream conjured up by his own desire to have his child safe once more. Taking two faltering steps, he had reached her, wrapping his arms around her solid form, hiding his relieved tears in her pale hair. When he let her go, she relinquished Legolas to his arms, though the elfling kept a tight grip on her hair. “Thank you,” he whispered, unsure if it was aimed at his long-absent daughter or the Valar who had allowed her to find Legolas.

“He found me in the forest,” she replied, answering his unasked question. “I did not think Legolas was old enough to wander alone,” she frowned. Thranduil sank back into his chair, barely noticing Maeassel’s exit.

“He ran away,” Thranduil admitted. “I spent the morning down by the Raft-Gate, and no one had seen him all day. We’ve been searching the halls for hours. I had only just ordered a wide sweep of the forest.”

“I was surprised to see him, wandering about an hour’s walk from here,” Rhonith said, stroking Legolas’ small cheek as she sat on the floor by Thranduil’s feet, leaning against his legs with a soft smile aimed at the sleeping elfling. “He told me he knew I was coming, so he’d gone out to find me… and got a bit lost, perhaps,” she chuckled. Thranduil joined her, relief flooding his overwrought heart until he was sobbing against Legolas, holding the elfling close to his chest.

“I thought…” he whispered. “Oh, sellig, I was so afraid.” Rhonith said nothing, simply gripping his hand tightly and watching Legolas sleep.

“Ada…?” Legolas murmured sleepily, blinking up at his father’s concerned face. “Rhonith?” he asked, when Thranduil could find no words. “Look Ada, I found Rhonith for you!” the small boy grinned, clearly expecting Thranduil to praise him.

“What did I tell you, Glasseg?” Rhonith asked, keeping her voice calm but adding a touch of displeasure. She had found him in the forest, almost dissolved in tears because he couldn’t find her _or_ the way home, and she knew Thranduil and the rest of his caretakers had warned the elfling not to leave the Halls unaccompanied.

“That Ada would be worried where I’d gone,” Legolas parroted obediently.

“Worried?” Thranduil said incredulously, feeling that the word did not do his feelings justice one bit. “Worried?!” his voice rose as he jumped to his feet, still holding Legolas, and not hearing Rhonith’s pained cry when the elfling pulled her hair. “Legolas, I have had four hundred Elves searching for you for hours! We thought you had gotten hurt, or simply lost, or even been kidnapped!” Anger snapped through the words like the crack of a whip. The little boy began crying again, sobbing apologies when Thranduil crushed him to his chest, breathing hard at the resurgence of fear. He felt almost more scared now that he held his reckless son in his arms than when the boy was missing. Hugging Legolas tightly, he rubbed a soothing hand along his small back. “Hush, ionneg,” he whispered. “You’re back now, you’re safe now. Adar is here.” Legolas was clinging as tightly to Thranduil as Thranduil did to him, as he cried out the fear that had overwhelmed him when he realised he was truly lost.

 

* * *

 

_Earlier that day._

Legolas woke up to the sun shining through the green maple leaves outside the windows, feeling happy. He had dreamed that Rhonith would be coming today, though he didn’t remember it as having been a dream, simply a fact. The elf who brought him breakfast told him that Adar would be back later, but he could go play with Alphel, if he liked. Legolas liked playing with Alphel, but Rhonith was coming! Excited, he had barely finished his breakfast before he began running through the halls. At first, he had thought that Rhonith was already here, but when he had spent all morning searching the caverns without finding her – even venturing down to the scary dungeons that Adar used to store root vegetables during winter – he remembered that she was _coming_ , not already _arrived_. Feeling proud of himself, Legolas ate lunch in the kitchens, stealing an extra bun for Rhonith before he set off, somehow avoiding anyone’s notice. He was a mighty hero off on a grand adventure to find the beautiful princess!

 

An hour later, the grand adventure was becoming a little scary. The trees were very tall around him, and Legolas felt quite small. Nibbling on the currant bun he had taken from Maeassel’s tray, Legolas continued down the path, unaware that his small feet missed a bend while his eyes were staring up, up, up, trying to see the sky.

Legolas no longer liked his adventure. Heroes were all good in stories, but actually being one was very difficult, he’d found. He didn’t know where he was, he was cold, his food had gone, he was thirsty, and he wanted Adar! The last word became a shrill cry, as Legolas burst into tears, sinking down on the mulch of the forest floor.

“Ada, Ada, Ada!” he cried, feeling more alone than ever before. The shadows of the trees, no longer pretty with their red leaves but scary and darkening with the setting of the Sun, lengthened. Legolas kept crying, calling for his father. He got up slowly, hiccupping sobs as his small voice began to give out, telling himself that he had to keep moving, find the way _home_. Maybe Rhonith wasn’t coming after all?

 

“Legolas?” At first, the little boy thought the voice was not really there, some magick of the forest meant to confuse him. A hand shook his small shoulder. “Legolas, glasseg, what are you doing so far away from the Halls?”

“Rho-nith?” he asked, croaking out her name as he finally dared to look up at her. Legolas didn’t think magic would scold him. “You came!” he cried.

 

* * *

 

At first, she had thought the whimpering animal in origin. Wanting to arrive – lembas was great for travelling, of course, but she had been hoping for a proper meal tonight – she would have ignored it, if not for the fact that the whimper sounded an awful lot like her name. Fear, fully formed in an instant, sprang to life in her breast. _What if someone was truly hurt, asking for aid?_ Turning her feet, she headed towards the sound, calling for whomever it was to answer her.

“Legolas?” Rhonith thought she was seeing thing. _What in the name of Durin was Legolas doing so far from home? And alone?_ The elfling shivered, but did not look up. Reaching for his shoulder, she kept her voice mild, hoping not to startle him. “Glasseg, what are you doing so far away from the Halls?”

“Rho-nith?” he asked, croaking out her name as he finally dared to look up at her. Rhonith felt her heart break a little at the misery on his face, mend a little when he gave her a wide smile. “You came!” he cried. Noticing the way he shivered, she picked up the small body hastily, clutching him against her chest as she wrapped her cloak around him.

“Ai, little one, why are you all alone out here?” she whispered, pressing kisses against his hair as Legolas clung to her, wrapping his arms and legs around her body.

“Want Ada,” he wept, burrowing into her warmth. Rhonith hummed soothingly, rubbing his back. The small body had not yet grown into an adult elf’s hardiness and imperviousness to weather. Legolas was chilled to the bone, she felt.

“Yes, we’ll go find Ada, Leafling,” she promised, dropping her pack to the ground as she began to run, her feet pounding the leaf mulch beneath her. “Atheg must be worried sick about you,” she whispered, when Legolas’ breathing told her he’d fallen asleep.

 

* * *

 

“Rhonith!” Bronwe hailed her when he caught sight of the running elleth, he mithril braids bouncing on her back.

“Where’s Atheg?” she asked, hardly waiting for his response.

“Legolas is missing, the King is in his study.” Bronwe said, perplexed by her urgency.

“I found Legolas, mellon!” she called back over her shoulder as she ran past him. Bronwe turned to follow, barking out orders to call off the search among the trees. “Send someone back for my pack!”

 

* * *

 

Opening the door, Rhonith found Thranduil leaning out of the window, gasping for breath.

“I found Something that belongs to you,” she said, making him turn, wide-eyed and stare at her. Shifting the cloak to reveal the now-rosy cheeks of Legolas, whose warmth had been restored, Rhonith smiled at the Elf she called father. Thranduil moved faster than her eyes could follow, his hands roaming Legolas’ body where it lay cradled in her arms, searching the small elfling for any sign of injury.

“Thank you,” he whispered reverently. Rhonith relinquished the sleeping elfling though his grip on her hair meant she could not move far – not that she wanted to, staring her fill at the little boy she loved above all other souls in Arda. Thranduil sat heavily in the chair behind him – Rhonith wasn’t sure he even knew it was there, as he stumbled blindly backwards.

 

* * *

 

Legolas cried himself into exhausted sleep. He did not let go of the lock of mithril hair he had claimed during Rhonith’s run through the forest, and Thranduil did not relinquish his hold till morning woke his son, hungry for food. In truth, he hardly let go of Legolas at all that day, though the boy did not seem to mind; being outside without Ada’s protection had scared him greatly. Instead, the two blonde elves listened to Rhonith telling stories, exclaiming over the toys she had brought with her from the Dwarrowdelf and enjoyed a quiet day of each other’s company.

 


	4. Mistakes and Training

Rhonith sang as she walked, enjoying the light breeze and the sound of birds in the air. The first arrow was a surprise making her draw her own weapons; even with the Enemy banished and the One Ring lost for good, travelling anywhere still demanded caution. Nurtalëon had escorted her to the edge of the forest, but he had returned to Lindórinand, letting her walk the paths of Greenwood alone.

“Halt stranger!” Someone called, his Sindarin obviously foreign to his tongue. Rhonith frowned quizzically.

“I am no stranger in these lands, guardsman,” she replied evenly. _Were these elves actually guards, or did Thranduil face a problem with rebel Silvans?_ “I am Ilsamirë Rhonith, coming from the south. I am a friend of Greenwood, and of your King, Thranduil Oropherion.” For a moment, Rhonith wondered if the song she chose was wrong, but she was certain it was the right one to convey friendly intent and familiarity with the path; meaning no guard ought to have bothered her in her journey north.

“We’ll have to take her to the King,” another one whispered, keeping to the Nandorin tongue. Rhonith smiled to herself, grateful that Nínimeth had taught her some of the words. It was not much like Sindarin, though the elves who spoke only Nandorin were diminishing in number; obviously, these guards were new and untested.

“We will let the King judge your fate,” the first one said, gesturing with his bow. “Surrender your weapons.” Rhonith sighed. Atheg was not going to be pleased with these morons, but they did not seem to be inclined to listen to her. With a wry smile, she began removing her weapons, her bow and her long knives – a Nandorin weapon, and not as familiar as her longer swords, but easier for travelling – a couple of throwing daggers made by uncle Durin – she _would_ be getting those back, or _someone_ would be getting stabbed with one of the blades she kept disguised as hair ornaments in her braids.

“If you so much as scratch them, master Elf,” she hissed at the one who picked them up, “I will see to it you are demoted to cleaning lady.” Atheg probably wouldn’t object, she thought, smirking at the young one who probably hadn’t understood her quick words, but she felt better for having said it. They couldn’t deny that she had given them fair warning, now.

“Bind her hands,” the leader ordered, back to his native tongue once more. The only elleth in the group swiftly obeyed, and Rhonith felt unwillingly impressed with her skill. The ropes were too tight to let her hands slip free easily, but did not chafe. It was not _hithlain_ , however, and she could have escaped using one of her smaller blades to cut it. Rhonith shook her head lightly. Bronwe would be making mincemeat of these fools. She had always admired his vast repertoire of invective and his inventive use of speeches as punishment, making an offender feel like the worst creature ever to cross Bronwe’s will – often, it had been she and Thalion facing his ire before he set them some menial task as extra punishment… and then he told Ada, whose disappointed looks would burn into your heart and make you truly feel remorse for your misdeeds.

“Why is she smiling?” the elleth murmured to the ellon beside her who shrugged. Rhonith’s smile deepened.

 

* * *

 

Two days later, the Gates were in sight. Rhonith sighed in relief, glad that this spectacle would soon be over. She had given up conversing with her guards; she had only basic Nandorin, after all, far more familiar with the Doriathren/Woodelven mixed Sindarin that had been spoken in Greenwood since Oropher claimed the lordship of the forest.

“Rhonith!” a young voice called happily. The guards stiffened. Rhonith smiled.

“Cut me loose!” she hissed at the young elleth who had tied the bonds. “Now!” The elleth looked indecisive, but pulled her dagger and cut through the bonds in a fluid move. The rope still formed manacles around her wrists, but Rhonith was free to turn and drop to one knee, accepting the small body that hurtled itself at her. She laughed. “Hello Glasseg,” she whispered, running her fingers over the tip of the small prince’s ear. The guards stared. “Did you miss me?” Legolas nodded, burrowing into her hold. Rhonith’s eyes caught sight of captain Bronwe, who had probably been alerted that the patrol was bringing back a prisoner and held up her wrist, still dangling a strand of rope. “The hospitality of Greenwood seems somewhat lessened of late,” she remarked. Bronwe stared.

“Rhonith, _hiril vuin_ ,” he asked, seemingly in disbelief. Legolas squirmed to be put down.

“I believe your guards forgot their songs,” Rhonith continued blithely, setting the elfling on his feet with a gentle smile.

“I’m using a bow now!” Legolas informed her excitedly, “Come see!”

“One day you will be a mighty hunter like your grandfather, Glasseg,” she laughed. Legolas nodded seriously. Of course, he’d never met Drauchir, Rhonith belatedly remembered, a twinge in her heart for the old elf.

“One day, I will kill an Oliphaunt for you, Rhonith!” he boasted. She laughed.

“I’m sure you will, sweetling,” Rhonith agreed, sliding the rope off her wrists and following the exited elfling. “I will want all my weapons back, Captain,” she called over her shoulder. “And do inform Atheg that his children will be at the practise range.”

Bronwe nodded, turning a dark glare on the unfortunate patrol.

 

* * *

 

 

Thranduil sat on his throne, silently considering the four guardsmen before him.

“You have failed me,” he intoned, startling the four. “We have our policies and traditions for a reason. Who knows how many orcs or other creatures of Darkness might have crept into the Greenwood while you were busy ‘escorting’ my daughter to my halls…” he said, seething with cold anger, “…in chains?!” he roared the last words. The four guardsmen jumped.

“Thranduil Aran, we were only-” the leader began, but Thranduil silenced him with a look he had copied from Oropher at his most deadly. The guard cowered.

“I have no need of guards who cannot recognise friend from foe,” he seethed. “I have no doubt Bronwe has assigned you four something unpleasant to do to make the lesson stick, but I expect all four of you to report to the minstrels tomorrow morning and spend half the day memorizing all the songs used in the guard rotation. To prove to me that you have learned them, you four will be performing a small concert in one lefnar. There you will act out each of the ten songs with appropriate responses from a patrol coming across someone they do not know.” Thranduil looked down at the four. “You will not fail me again,” he warned. With a wave of his hand, the four disgraced guards were dismissed, and Thranduil leaned back with a sigh. Then he smiled, rising from the throne and making his way quickly through the halls. Bronwe had said they would be at the archery range, and he might still be in time to be impressed by Legolas’ newfound skills, the Elvenking thought, smiling softly.

 

* * *

 

“Rhonith!” Legolas cried loudly as soon as she was spotted walking up to the large Forest Gates. He used his Ada’s name for the elleth, though neither of them actually considered her a sister. Legolas did not know why, but he had never felt that his Ada’s adopted daughter was his sister. Nor was she an aunt or a cousin, like his playmates had.

“Hello Glasseg,” she whispered, running her fingers over the tip of his ear. “Did you miss me?” Legolas nodded, burrowing into her hold.

“I’m using a bow now!” Legolas informed her excitedly, pulling on her hand when she let him go, “Come see!”

“One day you will be a mighty hunter like your grandfather, Glasseg,” she laughed. Legolas nodded seriously; of course, he would, Ada said so.

“One day, I will kill an Oliphaunt for you, Rhonith!” he boasted. The elleth laughed, but she never told him he couldn’t do things he told her he would. Unlike his playmate Alphel, who was a year older than Legolas and always rubbed her superior skills in his face, Rhonith believed in him and Legolas loved her for it. Rhonith’s approval was different to Ada’s, though equally coveted.

“When you have grown older and stronger, I’m sure you will,” she said, smiling, “but you’ll have to practice a lot; Oliphaunts are very large, Glasseg, they will not be easy to kill.” With a laugh, she ran her fingers over his small ears and let him drag her off to the archery range. He had recently begun training with bow and arrows, and he excitedly showed her how good he was getting. When he managed to hit the target three out of four shots, Rhonith clapped, smiling as happily as he was.

“How large is it?” Legolas asked, skipping off to collect his training arrows. They were smaller than real arrows, but Ada had promised that he would soon be big enough to practice with a larger bow – still not an adult size, of course, but bigger than the small bow he carried now. Rhonith appeared thoughtful, sitting on the ground by the line that marked ten paces. Some of Ada’s guards could shoot 200 paces, Legolas had seen, but Bronwe had told him and Amathanar that all the Guard-Elves he commanded had _also_ used a small bow at short distance to begin with, so Legolas felt confident he would grow big enough to train properly soon.

“An Oliphaunt, a male and fully grown has tusks that are about as long as your Ada is tall,” she said, Legolas stared. Thinking about his Oliphaunt toy, he tried to imagine something that big standing next to him.

“Is it taller than the trees?” he asked, craning his neck back to stare up at the green canopy far overhead. Rhonith laughed. Legolas smiled. Rhonith was often sad, but he liked it when she laughed.

“Yes, Glasseg, I believe it is. The people of South Harad use them to travel, whole families can fit all their belongings on the back of an Oliphaunt.” Rhonith explained, clapping when Legolas’ shot hit the center of the target. He preened.

“Could we fit? Me and you and ada?” he asked, aiming his next shot carefully. It went a little off-center, but still hit the target. Rhonith ruffled his hair, which usually annoyed him when other elves did – except Ada, of course, and Maeassel, which was Bread-girl’s real name – but Rhonith was different. He gave her a smile when she did it, feeling happy when she smiled back.

“We could fit,” she promised, “and you could bring Bronwe, and Maeassel, and Amathanar, as well as Alphel and her family, and there would still be room for a few more.” Rhonith’s smile had changed, like she was very far away. Legolas didn’t like that look much. He fired again.

“I hit it!” he crowed, pleased to see the arrow had hit the black center of the target.

“So you did, Glasseg,” Rhonith smiled, handing him another. Legolas grinned.

He practiced all afternoon, firing arrow after arrow as Rhonith watched, never growing tired of the game.

 

* * *

 

“My son has found his favourite audience, I see,” Thranduil said mildly, running his fingers across Rhonith’s ear in greeting. She leaned lightly against his leg.

“Rhonith came!” Legolas informed him, rather redundantly. The adults hid their smiles. Legolas skipped off to gather his arrows.

“He is so different, even since last time I was here,” Rhonith whispered, “so joyous.”

“It lightens my heart to see it.” Thranduil squeezed her hand, folding his legs beneath him and watching the young elfling scamper around, trying to find the arrows that missed his target. “And this time he did not run away to find you,” he added drily. Rhonith chuckled.

“I’ve yet to work out how he even knew I was on my way. You did not, if I am correct?” she asked, a thoughtful frown on her face.

“I do not think so,” Thranduil mused. “You came from the High pass near Imladris… I had no scouts reporting you entering the forest, no. This time, yes, but only because the patrol did not know your face,” he scowled at that; he had been displeased that his adopted daughter was not recognised by the patrols meant to guard his forest, and Bronwe had been particularly put-out that they had not remembered which song was meant to signify someone welcomed by their king so he had punished the hapless fools hard. Rhonith laughed.

“I cannot say it was not a novel experience to be led here in bondage, but hopefully it will be the last time it happens. The story of Bronwe’s punishment has probably spread far and wide by now. No one will dare to forget the proper songs.” The topic was left behind at the return of the happily bouncing elfling, a fistful of arrows clutched in his hand.

“Ada, watch me!” Legolas exclaimed, turning to take up his place at the line, his energy flagging visibly. The arrow missed. So did the next three. Legolas was getting upset; he’d wanted to show Ada how good he was getting!

“Ah, ionneg, come here,” Thranduil said calmly, when the fifth shot flew wide enough to hit the next target over. Legolas pouted, but returned to Ada, who caught him up in a hug and let him sit on his lap, playing the fabric of his robe. “Rhonith was telling me all about how you promised to kill an Oliphaunt for her.” Thranduil continued, sharing a glance with the younger elleth above Legolas’ head. The boy nodded. “Will you tell me about this beastie?” Thranduil said. “I have never seen one, you know.”

“You haven’t?” Legolas gaped. Ada knew everything! “It looks like my toy,” he said, listing things on his fingers, “it has four large teeth called tusks, like that boar that Bronwe killed. People can ride on them – just like I’m allowed to sit on my toy, but it walks, it doesn’t rock back and forth,” he added, looking up to make sure Ada understood. “People make houses on the back of them, and bring their whole family to live there!” he exclaimed, missing the way Rhonith’s smile widened. Ada hugged him.

“It sounds like a very big animal, ionneg,” he murmured. Legolas leaned back against his Ada’s warm chest, yawning slightly.

“Is,” he mumbled. “Taller than you. Taller than the trees! Taller-” Legolas’ stream of words ended abruptly, transforming into a light snore. Rhonith chuckled. Thranduil shook his head, arranging the small body in his arms as he got to his feet.

“Let’s get you to bed, ionneg,” he murmured, returning to the halls.

“I will have someone bring our food to your rooms in case he wakes,” Rhonith whispered, trailing her fingers across the tiny pointed ear and smiling at Thranduil. “I have missed you both.”

“Welcome home, sellig,” he smiled.

 


	5. A Wedding in Imladris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil has been invited to the wedding of his kinswoman Celebrían... and Legolas is a popular guest ;)

 

  


 

_Inspired by this drawing, though I’ve no idea who to credit for the making; do comment if you know the artist!_

_TA 109, somewhere in Greenwood._

Shifting his son on his lap, Thranduil, King of Greenwood, held his reins loosely. The large elk he rode – Dairon had died last winter, but his son Caranor was proving to be just as good a mount as his sire – shared its naneth’s colour, as well as her spirited temper. Firithel had died only a few years after his birth, defending her fawn from a large wolf, and it made him sad to see one more link to his lost Queen disappear from the world, even if it was something as comparably minor as her favourite mount.

“Ada!” Legolas cried out, breaking Thranduil free of his thoughts, amused when the elfling – _had it really already been thirty years since the small leaf had been placed in his arms, all red and wrinkly and heartbreakingly beautiful?_ – pointed at the small yellow bird that had a nest in the tree they were passing. “Look!”

“It’s called an Eilinel, ionneg,” Thranduil murmured. Caranor snorted, moving with easy steps through the dense woods. His antlers were not yet as large as Dairon’s had been – Thranduil had a wry thought that his old mount would have needed to choose his path carefully to avoid getting stuck – and the new tines were still covered with peeling fluff. The little bird trilled, and then it was gone in a yellow flash of feathers. Legolas giggled, repeating the word.

“But Ada,” he objected, after some deliberation, “Eilinel is not a bird!”

“Yes, ionneg,” Thranduil chuckled, throwing a glance over his shoulder where one of his favourite singers was riding, “but Eilinel is named for the bird.”

“But she has brown hair,” Legolas said, and Thranduil could easily imagine the frown on his small face, trying to puzzle out the answer, even though he couldn’t see it. Twisting to look up at him, Legolas repeated his answer, as though Thranduil was being silly. “She has _brown_ hair, Ada.” Tugging on one of the pale locks of Legolas’ own hair, Thranduil chuckled gently.

“Eilinel was named for her voice, Legolas.” For a moment, it looked like Legolas would object to that reasoning – Thranduil wasn’t sure he wanted to explain how the naming of elflings worked in this moment – but then he nodded, turning back to look at the forest, straining himself to see more elusive animals as Caranor cantered along.

“Where are we going, Ada?” Legolas asked, when it became clear that there would be no more birds keen for inspection in the trees surrounding them, the dark conifers stretching towards the sky.

“To Imladris, Legolas,” Thranduil replies, distracted by a commotion towards the back of their caravan.

“Why?” The small voice said, tugging on Thranduil’s green sleeve when the answer didn’t come quick enough.

“Hmm?” Thranduil hummed, twisting in his seat to look behind them. Someone had fallen off their mount; he recognised one of the younger ellyn – a troublemaker – but Captain Bronwe had already restored order among his underlings, and the young guardsman regained his seat with his ears flaming with embarrassment.

“Why are we going to Imladris?” Legolas repeated.

“Because a friend of mine is getting wed,” Thranduil replied patiently, steering his mount with his legs as he kept one ear on the goings-on behind him. “Lord Elrond of Imladris is going to marry Lady Celebrían, a kinswoman of ours through her adar, Legolas, and we have been invited to attend the celebrations.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Ada!” The happy voice and the sudden weight attached to the train of his robes made Thranduil immediately aware of his son's desire.

“Legolas is sitting on your robe,” Elrond said, rather redundantly in Thranduil's view. He nodded. The Lord of Imladris did not approve of his robes, Thranduil had realised, but they had spent far too long in armour together for Erond to point out the large swathes of fabric trailing behind him. Thranduil thought these Elves – a motley mix of Sindarin and Noldorin Elves, with a smattering of his own Ada’s Laiquendi people thrown in – considered his robes an affectation of fashion, but he didn’t much care. At first, he had worn the voluminous robes as a sort of armour, a mask to shield his battered spirit from the world, and later he had worn them to hide his gaunt frame from his subjects, but these days they were as much a part of the Elvenking as they were a part of Thranduil himself. Looking at the younger – only by about three centuries, but Thranduil felt far older at times – ellon, the Elvenking of Greenwood smirked.

“Yes,” he replied evenly, having learnt self-control in Doriath and managing to keep his laughter from showing on his face. By now, he had spent so many years among the less formal Silvani in Greenwood that the stiffer etiquette he was once taught in Doriath sometimes took him by surprise when he was among other Sindar. The elfling he had been in Doriath never would have dared sit on Oropher's robes if they had been long enough for Legolas's favourite game. Well, he wouldn’t have dared outside their home, of course, Thranduil admitted to himself; Oropher had always been the image of a proper Sindar lord in the court of Thingol.

“Aaaaaaada!” Legolas's voice turned plaintive and Thranduil relished the flabbergasted look on Erestor's face at the sound. The former Seneschal of Eregion had always been a dour fellow, and peace did not seem to have mellowed him or his sense of propriety. Beside him, Elrond seemed to be having trouble deciding what to think of the small elfling demanding his Ada’s attention. Thranduil did not snicker, but only because he had more self-control than that and paid him no mind. Legolas was far more precious than any fancy artwork Elrond wanted to show off as Lord of the recently-named Imladris, the newly finished home of the survivors of Eregion as well as some of the former inhabitants of Lindon, who had followed their young Lord through the struggles of wartime.

“You will find, Elrond,” Thranduil said calmly, turning his head to smile at the small boy who shared so many of his features, “when you and the Lady Celebrían have elflings of your own-” pausing, Thranduil was rewarded by the sight of Elrond's ears reddening, “-that there are very few inconveniences you will not suffer to make them smile.”

“My Lord?” Elrond asked, apparently confused. Thranduil smirked, feeling the experiences that separated them keenly, like a mantle of wisdom born of the trials of parenthood.

“Watch,” he chuckled, handing Erestor the vase he had been meant to admire - it was lovely craftsmanship, made of thin-blown glass, but not particularly pretty in Thranduil’s opinion. Squaring his shoulders, Thranduil set off at his usual brisk walking pace; the Elves here might like their slow and steady meandering through their gardens, but Thranduil was used to an altogether different speed of motion. Not for the first time, he wondered what would have happened if Oropher had decided to head for Gondolin when Doriath was sacked instead of staying with Círdan’s people, wondered who he might be if the past nearly three thousand years had not happened the way they had, but he shook off the thoughts. Despite the grief he had suffered, he knew he would change none of it, choosing to dwell on the joys of his long life whenever possible.

“WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”

Behind him, sliding across the even floors on the long train of his robes, his youngest son squealed with laughter. The expected result made Thranduil chuckle into the goblet of miruvor he still held, turning around with a wry smirk in Elrond’s direction as he toasted his host with the goblet. Erestor looked sour, striding off in silence, but his absence was no great loss in Thranduil’s opinion. Setting off once more, he returned to Elrond's side, prompting another loud round of giggling from his Little Leaf. Thranduil smiled. The new Lord of Imladris stared. Legolas kept giggling to himself, and Thranduil felt his heart swell with love.

“Again, Ada, again,” the elfling begged, but Thranduil picked him up instead, putting down his empty goblet. Legolas snuggled into his chest, trying to hide a yawn.

“It is late, ionneg,” Thranduil murmured. “Why are you not in bed like Amathanar?” He had bid Legolas goodnight hours before, leaving him in the competent care of Maeassel, but he knew that the little boy’s mischievous spirit – a joy to behold, but also a piercing reminder of his oldest son, who had been the embodiment of mischief right up until the day an Orc’s spear claimed his life – had probably overcome him; his youngest son wanted to experience everything, rarely content with being sent to bed if his ada was awake and doing things. Thranduil knew that he indulged the boy, but he couldn’t find it in his heart to stop, even though he knew Nínimeth would have laughed at him a time or two if she could see them.

Legolas murmured something unintelligible in response and Thranduil wrapped a fold of his robes around the sleepy elfling, humming a soft tune.

“I... You do that often?” Elrond seemed to change his mind mid-sentence, but Thranduil just nodded. In fact, all of his robes had reinforced shoulder seams, precisely because Legolas liked to ride along behind him. In the beginning, Thranduil had found the habit peculiar, but slowly it became a simple source of joy to watch his son smile when his turn of speed made the small belly tickle with exhilaration. It was the same expression he saw when he took Legolas riding, the same expression his Naneth had worn when she challenged him to a race or a swim, dragging him anywhere in their vast forest home to show off all the joys to be found beneath the green leaves.

The habit had lessened over the years as Legolas grew capable of running around on his own, but it remained one of his favourite games; especially when he was a little tired and wanting reassurance. Thranduil smiled softly, pressing his mouth to the tip of a finely pointed ear. Legolas burrowed closer into his chest, his breath turning into soft snores as Thranduil rocked him slowly.

“If it makes my son laugh, there is very little I would not do,” Thranduil admitted, knowing that he did not need to add any other reason: Elrond had seen his Queen on her way to the Grey Havens, and he knew what it was to grow up without a parent, even if he claimed that the Feanorioni had loved him and his brother. The Lord of Imladris nodded silently, leading the way back towards the feast in the main hall where Lady Celebrían was looking even more radiant than her mother as she entertained the guests.

Legolas slept peacefully in his arms. The sight brought softness to many eyes, most of the assembled still remembering terrible years of warfare and the cost of the peace they had won. To many - and to Thranduil himself - little Legolas was proof that their peace would last: at the age of 30, he was still a young child, the slower growth a visible reminder that the Darkness had been defeated and Barad-dûr thrown down.

 

Taking a seat by Elrond - he was among the highest-ranking visitors and merited a seat of honour even if they had not been friends - Thranduil shifted Legolas’s sleeping body into his lap and picked up a goblet of spring water, sipping slowly. Around them, the celebration continued, but Thranduil was content to hold his son and listen as he enjoyed the joyous feeling of celebration that hung in the air.

“May I?” Celebrían asked, and Thranduil couldn't find it in his heart to deny her, even if he would have preferred to spend the rest of the night holding his son. He nodded, letting her pick up the sleeping elfling and take him further down the table. When she was out of earshot, he chuckled lightly.

“Hmmm?” Elrond asked, pouring wine into their empty goblets. For a moment, he had been lost in staring at his radiant beauty, but Thranduil’s mirth made him turn his head away from the silver hair that glowed in the light of the moon.

“I dare say you will know the joys of fatherhood ere long,” Thranduil smirked, watching the soon-to-be Lady of Imladris cooing over his son. Elrond choked on his drink.

“Should I not wed her before you begin taking about elflings,” he spluttered, wiping ineffectively at his robes. Thranduil chuckled, handing him a napkin.

“I give you no more than thirty years before your first elfling arrives,” he predicted, feeling smug when Elrond's ears reddened again. _Sometimes_ , Thranduil thought smugly, having had his elflings at a comparatively young age like most Silvans, _the Lord of Imladris was far too easily flustered._

“You're on!” Elrond called, when he had stopped coughing and downed the rest of his goblet. Thranduil laughed outright.

“I shall expect settlement in silk, I think, my short-sighted friend. Enough for a new robe.”

 

* * *

 

In 130, Thranduil received a messenger from Imladris bearing a scroll with the single word ‘ _Twins!_ ’ on it, and several bolts of fine silk cloth in a small wagon.

He laughed for a very long time.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  Legolas by [上野(束）](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Ftwitter.com%2Fueno_f_kimico&t=NTI4Mzc1ZDljNGUyYTA5MmYxNWNkNjBmODk4ZTIyY2IyMDMwYzJjZCxmYjVjdEZOWA%3D%3D&b=t%3Ak5BD1malP6EfWEacBRadMA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fmyrkvidrs.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F170789378806%2Fgandalf-bilbo-frodo-by-%E4%B8%8A%E9%87%8E%E6%9D%9F&m=1)

 Legolas by [上野(束）](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Ftwitter.com%2Fueno_f_kimico&t=NTI4Mzc1ZDljNGUyYTA5MmYxNWNkNjBmODk4ZTIyY2IyMDMwYzJjZCxmYjVjdEZOWA%3D%3D&b=t%3Ak5BD1malP6EfWEacBRadMA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fmyrkvidrs.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F170789378806%2Fgandalf-bilbo-frodo-by-%E4%B8%8A%E9%87%8E%E6%9D%9F&m=1)

She was dancing – the Feast of Starlight had come again, and Rhonith had arrived with it – with one of the young guardsmen, the light of the stars above catching in her hair and making it shine even brighter than usual. He was meant to be asleep, he knew, but he had snuck back to watch the feasting after Ada said goodnight. Ada was not dancing – Ada never danced – but Legolas could see the smile in his eyes as he watched Rhonith and the rest of them whirling lightly across the grassy glade. It made him happy; Ada often seemed sad, a sadness even his most silly ideas could not banish. Maybe Ada would be even happier if he got to dance?

Idea born, he snuck towards the long table where Maeassel had stacked mounds of berry tarts and tapped barrels of cider and wine. Hiding beneath the table, he studied the legs moving in and out of view. Rhonith’s dress was a pale purple underneath, with a thin white dress on top that flared gently when she moved and – _there!_

“Dancing is thirsty work, mellon,” Rhonith laughed above him, the ellon she had partnered with chuckling in response before he bowed and went on his way. Legolas smiled to himself. Reaching out, he tugged at the pale cloth.

“Rhonith!” he whisper-hissed, tugging again.

“Legolas?!” she exclaimed, bending down to look at him. Legolas waved, suddenly a little shy. Rhonith’s brows relaxed and she smiled at him. Remembering his first purpose for sneaking back to the feast, he held his hand towards her, his fist clenched tightly around a bright white night-rose. “That’s a pretty flower, Lassig,” she said, “but why are you hiding beneath the table?” She wasn’t angry, and she accepted the flower, bringing it up to her face for a moment to enjoy the scent, and so Legolas dared to leave his hiding place, taking her hand in his own.

“Ada is sad,” he informed her, making Rhonith look up from the flower and squeeze his hand gently.

“I know, Lassig,” she murmured, leaning down to give him a hug before twisting the rose into her hair, “this Feast was one of your Naneth’s favourites, Legolas, and Atheg misses her very much…” she sighed, looking at Ada sitting by the edge of the clearing, a finely wrought silver goblet forgotten in his hand. “She loved dancing,” Rhonith said, sighing again, “I don’t remember seeing them ever off the floor at feasts.” Her smile had turned sad around the edges, an echo of Ada’s and Legolas did not like it. Tugging on her hand, he began moving.

“ _We_ will dance with him, then,” he said. Rhonith laughed, but he did not think she was laughing at _him_ , precisely.

“Perhaps we will at that,” she murmured, squeezing his hand in her own as she followed him towards Ada’s seat.

 

“Are you not meant to be asleep, ionneg,” Ada asked, but not in the tone that meant he was angry. Legolas grinned.

“We want to dance with you!” he said instead, largely unconcerned with the thought that it was long past his bedtime – the Feast of Starlight was far more exciting than sleep, after all.

“Do you now?” Ada chuckled, and Legolas knew that he was happy even if his eyes still held shadows of sorrow in their depths. Rhonith held out her free hand.

“I do not think you will be able to escape, Atheg,” she laughed. Legolas nodded gravely, taking Ada’s other hand and pulling on it.

“Dance, Ada,” he said, smiling in that way that usually made Ada sigh and ruffle his hair and let him out of trouble. Ada shook his head slowly, chuckling to himself as he got to his feet.

“One dance, ionneg,” he murmured, “and then it is time for you to sleep.”

Legolas smiled widely.

 

Later, after Ada had returned to his seat – they had done three dances, even if they just moved in circles or swung Legolas between them instead of following the proper steps – Rhonith took him back to his bedroom. Legolas yawned, snuggling into her shoulder.

“Did you like my flower?” he murmured, more than half-asleep. Rhonith chuckled, and then he felt her press a kiss into his hair, making him smile and burrow into her hold further.

“I like it very much, my Leaf,” she murmured, tucking him into bed with another kiss to his forehead. “It’s a nice gift, Legolas, thank you.” Sitting on the edge of his bed, she sang softly, a lullaby he didn’t understand – Rhonith knew a lot of songs, she liked singing, and a lot of languages to sing them in – but he liked the tune. Her hand ran softly across the edge of his ear, just like Ada would do when he sang him to sleep.

“Ada should dance more – will you go dance with him more?” Legolas asked, needing to be sure before he fell asleep, feeling the pull of dreams tug him under, turning her answer almost dream-like.

“If you sleep now, I will go ask him to dance,” Rhonith promised.

Legolas smiled, letting the image of her dancing follow him into dreams, dancing along himself.  


	7. Mud-pies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a piece of fanart by dahmumu, found [here ](http://dahmumu.tumblr.com/post/174405160499/happy-birthday-adar-said-the-elfing-in-his)

He was dreaming, he knew, but didn’t want to wake up, feeling Nínimeth warm and present in his arms, tracing the curve of her smile with his eyes; he had pushed her wild hair away as he slept, avoiding suffocation. The bed they had shared in their airy tower bedroom in the Amon Lanc fortress his adar had built cradled his body, and the feel of her body against his was heartbreakingly familiar; he often woke up wrapped around her, cupping one breast in his hand and pressed tight against her back.

“Happy begetting day, _hervenn_ ,” she whispered, not turning her head or opening her eyes. “I love you.”

Thranduil pressed his face against the back of her neck, inhaling that familiar scent of white heather and honey – her soap – that clung to her hair, mixed with the warmth of sleep and felt desire move languidly through his body.

 _I miss you_ , he thought, but did not say, surprised to feel her tense at the touch of his lips. “Something wrong, _meleth-nîn_?” he murmured.

“I am not truly with you,” she replied shakily, “I am sorry, Hwin.”

This time, it was his turn to stiffen, _his_ hands that shook when he reached for her shoulder, making her turn over to look up at him, large emerald eyes filled with anguish.

“Nínimeth…” he breathed, closing his eyes for a moment before staring at her again. “…how?”

She gasped lightly. “Hwiniedir!”

Surging upwards, she claimed his mouth in a kiss that seared itself into his mind, falling back with a slightly sheepish look on her face when he froze, hardly daring to believe… “ _How?_ ” he repeated.

“I went to the gardens of Lórien, my love,” she murmured, “and perhaps Irmo took pity on me… I do not know.” Then her eyes turned longing, one hand rising to draw the tear from his cheek. “How is our son? How is my littlest leaf?” she whispered, tugging him down for a kiss as sweet as any he’d had from her lips.

“Happy,” he replied hoarsely, stealing another, “as happy as I can make him.”

“And the twins?” Nínimeth wondered, wrapping her arms around his shoulder.

Thranduil shuddered.

Giving up kisses for the comfort of resting his head on her breast, he told her everything; how Thonnon’s hatred of him had turned Legolas into a small frightened ghost, how Thandir had been banished – that Arassiel and her daughter had moved to Lothlórien – _everything_.

“I am sorry, so sorry,” Nínimeth said, pressing kisses into his hair. “I should have been stronger, I know, but… it was like everything was so far away, too far for me to reach them, hear them, I…”

“Shh,” Thranduil murmured, rolling them both so he could hold her again, felt the warmth of her tears splashing onto his chest, “I know.”

“Nenglessel is teaching me letters,” Nínimeth said, much later, her fingers drawing tiny shapes on his chest that suddenly crystallised into words in his mind when she spoke. “Will you… the Teleri say they can get letters from the Havens -”

“I will write to you,” Thranduil promised, pressing a kiss into her wavy crimson locks.

“Thank you,” she said, turning her face to kiss him gently. “I have missed you, hervenn,” she murmured.

“Ada!” A young voice called, shattering the dream like shards of glass and making Thranduil jolt up, feeling the remnants of kisses skitter across his soul. _I love you._ “Ada are you awake?”

“…Legolas?” Thranduil mumbled, blinking rapidly as the golden skin and crimson hair of his wife resolved into the excited face of his youngest child, framed by pale hair tangled with branches. “Why are you all muddy?”

“I made you a cake!” Legolas informed him, looking proud as he gestured towards the weight in Thranduil’s lap. Gilaras nipped at one of the leaves sticking out of his hair. “Happy begetting day!”

“So I see,” Thranduil replied, staring at the fine silver platter in his lap, holding a mud pie decorated with oakleaves and blackcurrants. “And did you and Gilaras consult with Maeassel to see if this cake was _edible_?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at the small boy.

Legolas laughed. “Ada, Gilaras only speaks to _me_ , you know that,” he informed him, “she thinks blackcurrants are very tasty.” The elk in question stole another leaf from his hair. “And leaves.”

Thranduil shook his head slowly, smiling to himself. “Then I thank you, Legolas, for your gift, but don’t you think we should see if Maeassel will teach you how to make blackcurrant cakes that _you_ can eat?”

“Yes, Ada,” Legolas beamed, tugging on Thranduil’s hand. “Let’s go, let’s go!”

“You remind me so much of your naneth, ionneg,” Thranduil murmured, swinging his legs over the side of his lonely bed and rescuing the platter before it spilled mud all over the sheets.

“I do?” Legolas wondered, hugging his legs. Thranduil hummed.

“All her joy for life – that was her gift to you,” he murmured, caressing the small ear with his free hand. The words somehow seemed to fit, as though Nínimeth truly _had_ poured all her zest for life into this leafling and left none for herself. Thranduil shuddered momentarily, his dark thoughts interrupted by the brightness of Legolas smile when he beamed up at him.

Handing Legolas the mudpie, he washed briefly, throwing on one of his simplest tunics and a pair of leggings, his voluminous robe left undone when Legolas grabbed his hand again and dragged him towards the kitchens.

“Come on, Ada,” he called, nearly bouncing on his feet. Thranduil wisely took back the platter of mud, allowing his youngest son to speed their way through the halls, receiving the greetings of his people with nods and catching more than one smile at the excitable elfling scampering through the cavesystems.

The Head Baker, Maeassel, took one look at them and ordered him out of her domain until Legolas was more elfling than mud, which was only what he had expected. He had also expected Legolas to turn his large blue eyes on the cook – whose soft spot for his son had grown no smaller since he awoke – and when he added his own silent entreaty Maeassel threw up her hands in pretend-annoyance and consented to teach Legolas how to make berry tarts.

“But you’ll have a wash, Leafling, and a change of clothes!” she threatened. “And that deer will go back to the pens!”

Thranduil laughed silently, handing the mud-pie to one of Maeassel’s sculleries and following her to one of the large sinks the Dwarrow had built here.

Removing his own robe and stripping off Legolas’s muddy clothes – they landed in a pile on the floor with a splat that made him wince slightly for the washer women – Thranduil dumped his son into the sink, making the boy laugh and splash.

Washing off the mud quickly, he was unsurprised to find the muddy tunic and trousers gone, one of the servants holding out a clean towel and a fresh set for him to take when Legolas had been dried.

 

Later, taking a bite of the warm and delicious berry tart that Legolas had decorated with oak leaves made of pastry, Thranduil had to smile, feeling more uplifted than he had expected at the sight of his son yawning slightly, worn out by his early adventure.

“Did you like your pie, Ada?” Legolas asked him, digging into his own third slice with relish that reminded him of Thandir who had always had a love of sweets.

“Very much, ionneg,” Thranduil murmured. “I thank you.”

“Alphel said she made a cake for _her_ Adar’s begetting day,” Legolas informed him, “but mine was better.”

“I’m sure it was, Lassig,” Thranduil laughed. “But I think you’ll need a nap before you join Captain Bronwe’s archery class, no?”

“I’m not sleepy!” Legolas protested, which might have been more effective if he had not been interrupted b a great yawn. Thranduil smiled.

“Perhaps just a rest, then,” he added.

Legolas was asleep before he had finished his own second slice, not even stirring when Thranduil picked him up, returning him to his own rooms for a midday nap.

Bending, he pressed a kiss to the small forehead, leaving Legolas’ rool with a final glance back and smiling to himself.

He had a letter to write.

**Author's Note:**

> The story of Legolas' first pet can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13005819/chapters/29741400)


End file.
